“She owes 'er life to you, Mr. Monk, and no mistake,” Wraggs said with wide eyes. “A rare fighter you were. No woman, nor man neither, ever had a better champion in their cause, I'll swear to that on my Bible oath, I will.”

“Where did she go to, Mr. Wraggs, when she left here?”

“Ah, that she didn't tell no one, poor soul!” Wraggs shook his head. “An' who can blame 'er, I ask you, after what some folk said.”

Monk's heart sank. After the hope, the warmth of Wraggs's welcome and the sudden sight of some better part of himself, it had all slipped away again.

“You've no idea?” He was horrified to hear a catch in his voice.

“No sir, none at all.” Wraggs peered at him with anxiety and sorrow in his old eyes. “Thanked you with tears, she did, an' then just packed 'er things and went. Funny, you know, but I thought as you knew where she'd gone, 'cause I 'ad a feeling as you 'elped her go! But there, I suppose I must a' bin wrong.”

“France-the desk sergeant in the police station said he thought it was France.”

“Well I shouldn't wonder.” Wraggs nodded his head. “Poor lady would want to be out o' England, now wouldn't she, after all what folks said about 'er!”

“If she went south, who would know where she was?” Monk said reasonably. “She would take a new name and be lost in the crowd.”

“Ah no sir, not hardly. Not with the pictures of her in the newspapers! An”andsome as she was, people'd soon see the likeness. No, better she go abroad. And I for one hopes she's found a place for 'erself.”

“Pictures?”

“Yes sir-all in the illustrated news they was. Here, don't you remember? I'll get it for you. We kept them all.” And without waiting for Monk he scrambled to his feet and went over to the desk in the corner. He rummaged around for several minutes, then came back proudly holding a piece of paper which he put in front of Monk.

It was a clear picture of a remarkably pretty woman of perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six, with wide eyes and a long, delicate face. Seeing it he remembered her quite clearly. Emotion came back: pity, some admiration, anger at the pain she had endured and at people's ignorance and refusal to understand it, determination that he would see her acquitted, intense relief when he had succeeded, and a quiet happiness. But nothing more; no love, no despair-no haunting, persistent memory.

By June 15 there was a bare week to go before the trial commenced and the newspapers had again taken up the subject. There was much speculation as to what would be revealed, surprise witnesses for the defense, for the prosecution, revelations about character. Thaddeus Carlyon had been a hero, and his murder in such circumstances shocked people profoundly. There must be some explanation which would provide an answer and restore the balance of their beliefs.

Hester dined again at the Carlyon house, not because she was considered a close enough friend of the family to be welcome even at such a time, but because it was she who had recommended Oliver Rathbone, and they all now wished to know something more about him and what he was likely to do to try and defend Alexandra.

It was an uncomfortable meal. Hester had accepted although she could not tell them anything of Rathbone, except his integrity and his past success, which presumably at least Peverell already knew. But she still hoped she might learn some tiny shred of fact which would, together with other things, lead to Alexandra's true motive. Anything about the general surely ought to be useful in some fashion?

“I wish I knew more about this man Rathbone,” Randolph said morosely, staring down the length of the table at no one in particular. “Who is he? Where does he come from?”

“What on earth does that matter, Papa?” Edith said, blinking at him. “He's the best there is. If anyone can help Alexandra, he will.”

“Help Alexandra!” He faced her angrily, his eyes wide, his brows furrowed. “My dear girl, Alexandra murdered your brother because she had some insane idea he was amorously involved with another woman. If he had been, she should have borne it like a lady and kept her silence, but as we all know, he was not.” His voice was thick with distress. ' “There is nothing in the world more unbecoming in a woman than jealousy. It has been the curse of many an otherwise more than acceptable character. That she should carry it to the extreme of murder, and against one of the finest men of his generation, is a complete tragedy.”

“What we need to know,” Felicia said very quietly, “is what kind of implications and suggestions he is likely to make to try and defend her.” She turned to Hester. “You are familiar with the man, Miss Latterly.” She caught Damaris's eye. “I beg your pardon,” she said stiffly. “Familiar was an unfortunate choice of word. That was not what I intended.” She blinked; her wide eyes were cold and direct. “You are sufficiently acquainted with him to have recommended him to us. To what degree can you answer for his… his moral decency? Can you assure us that he will not attempt to slander our son's character in order to make there seem to be some justification for his wife having murdered him?”

Hester was taken aback. This was not what she had expected, but after only an instant's thought she-appreciated their view. It was not a foolish question.

“I am not answerable for his conduct in any way, Mrs. Carlyon,” she replied gravely. “He is not employed by any of us here, but by Alexandra herself.” She was acutely conscious of Felicia's grief. The fact that she could not like her did not lessen her awareness of its reality, or her pity for it. “But it would not be in her interest to make any charge against the general that could not be substantiated with proof,” she went on. “I believe it would predispose the jury against her. But quite apart from that, had the general been the most totally wretched, inconsiderate, coarse and vile man, unless he threatened her life, or that of her child, it would be pointless to raise it, because it would be no excuse for killing him.”

Felicia sat back in her chair, her face calmer.

“That is good, and I presume in the circumstances, certainly all we can hope for. If he has any sense, he will claim she is insane and throw her on the mercy of the court.” She swallowed hard and her chin lifted; her eyes were wide and very blue. She looked ahead of her, at no one. “Thaddeus was a considerate man, a gentleman in every way.” Her voice was harsh with emotion. “He never raised a hand against her, even when at times she sorely provoked him. And I know she did. She has been flighty, inconsiderate, and refused to understand the necessity of his leaving her when his career took him abroad in the life to which he dedicated himself for the service of his Queen and country.”

“You should see some of the letters of condolence we have received,” Randolph added with a sigh. “Only this morning one came from a sergeant who used to be in the Indian army with him. Just heard, poor fellow. Devastated. Said Thaddeus was the finest officer he ever served with. Spoke of his courage, his inspiration to the men.” He blinked hard and his head sank a little lower. His voice became thicker, and Hester was not sure whether it was purely from grief or grief mixed with self-pity. “Said how he had kept all the men cheerful when they were pinned down by a bunch of savages, howling like demons.” He was staring into the distance as if he saw not the sideboard with the elaborate Coalport china on it, but some baking plain under an Indian sun. “Almost out of ammunition, they were, and waiting to die. Said Thaddeus gave them heart, made them proud to be British and give their lives for the Queen.” He sighed again.

Peverell smiled sadly. Edith pulled a face, partly sorrow, partly embarrassment.